Well, I got this story idea when going through my old middle school stuff. I collected a lot of poetry, and pictures. People used to call my sister the 'Stoop Girl' because all she ever did was sit outside on our front steps. I guess this is a little bit from my elementary school, and middle school days combined. Trust me, the two were very different. The basic situation was pretty much the only personal thing I put in this story, besides a few of the poems. On a more depressing note, I dedicate the whole idea to my friend Skylar, who hated to be trapped. Enjoy
Kid stormed out of the house, with force that would make a bull jealous. He did this several times a week, and would throw rocks at the tall trees that lined his deserted backyard. He would get into an argument, or just get mad, and would storm off to his safe-haven. It calmed him down. He sat down on the rickety wooden steps, as he seemingly always did. He was doing some major brooding, when he took notice of a pure white object out of the corner of his eye. He definitely didn't own anything that color. He reached over and pulled the envelope out from in between the post, and the step, and checked the back of it.
Eustass Kid
He was surprised to see his name written neatly across the back, in cursive so lightly written the pen had let up at some points. The black in contrasted deeply with the pearl-like paper, and he briefly wondered if he should really open it. Before he knew it, his fingers were working at the flap of the envelope, uselessly attempting not to rip it. In the end, it was torn to pieces, and a frustrated Kid unfolded the paper, and began to read.
by Jim Wayne Miller
He comes gusting out of the house,
the screen door a thunderclap behind him.
He moves like a black cloud
over the lawn and-stops.
A hand in his mind grabs
a purple crayon of anger
and messes the clean sky.
He sits on the steps, his eye drawing
a mustache on the face in the tree.
As his weather clears,
his rage dripping away,
wisecracks and wonderment
spring up like dandelions.
'What?' He thought to himself perturbed. 'Why the hell would someone leave me a poem?' He wondered tracing each line with his finger, re-reading. 'What the hell does this have to do with me?' He continued to think as a pair of focused eyes continued to stare at him from the distance.